Remember, your artist is a child. Find and protect that child. Learning to let yourself create is like learning to walk. The artist child must begin by crawling. … Give yourself permission to be a beginner. By being willing to be a bad artist, you have a chance to be an artist, and perhaps, over time, a very good one.

Julia Cameron, The Artist’s Way, page 29-30

The artist’s language is a sensual one, a language of felt experience. When we work at our art, we dip into the well of our experience and scoop out images.

Julia Cameron, The Artist’s Way, 21

• Stop telling yourself, “It’s too late.”
• Stop waiting until you make enough money to do something you’d really love.
• Stop telling yourself, “It’s just my ego” whenever you yearn for a more creative life.
• Stop telling yourself that dreams don’t matter, that they are only dreams and that you should be more sensible.
• Stop fearing that your family and friends would think you crazy.
• Stop telling yourself that creativity is a luxury and that you should be grateful for what you’ve got.

Julia Cameron, in The Artist’s Way: A Spiritual Path to Higher Creativity, page 7

I’ve been moving, among other things, for the few of you who check this page and have been wondering. In the coming weeks, I’m going to be reading Julia Cameron’s book. I’m going to try to let go of my fears in the process. I don’t intend to post my responses to her writing prompts on this site, but we’ll see!

The orange wrapper was on a wire shelf a few inches above his head. He couldn’t read the writing, but he knew what it said: “Peanut Butter Cup.” What delightful words! He licked his lips.

He glanced back at his mother. She was putting the carton of milk on the conveyer belt. Her jaw set as she reached into the cart for the bananas and bread. Every few moments, James heard a “BEEP” as the checker swiped the groceries: cereal, canned vegetables, string cheese.

She wouldn’t notice! James thought, as he reached up, his fingers easily touching the shelf. But, no! That’s not right!

He reclaimed his hand and put it in his pocket, touching his lucky green soldier he’d put there earlier. There must be a better way! He bit his lip. He could hear his stomach growl.

Shuffling his feet, he turned around and bowed his head, his hands clasped in front of him.

“I’m so hungry, Mommy!” James spoke quickly but deliberately, keeping his head down. “Pretty please, Mommy, buy me a peanut butter cup? I’ll be so patient!”

Without moving his head up, he glanced up to gauge her reaction. She was reaching in to the shopping cart again. She glanced at him and turned back to her groceries. She spoke briskly:

“No, you can wait 10 more minutes for us to get home. No candy!”

He willed the tears to stop, but they wouldn’t. He’d been denied again!

Response to Fiction Friday prompt: Write about a failed proposal.

Could kids really be this patient and thoughtful? I don’t know. My son is still an infant. I guess I could write this better in a few years. I also can’t figure out how old James is. I just thought of him and started writing.

Write On Wednesday asks:

Do you consider yourself a writer? Do you think blogging is “real writing?” What does it take to be a “real writer”?

I write for a blog.

Actually, I write for four blogs.

But, like Becca says, I don’t tell people I do. When they ask what I like to do, I say “reading” or “photography,” but I never say “I like to write.”  I never say “I blog. A lot.”

I am torn in that respect. Why can’t I speak up? Chefdruck mentioned on her site a few weeks ago that she similarly had to “come out of the closet” in admitting that blogging is a large part of her life. I’m still in the closet.

In my mind, my blogging-writing isn’t “real writing.” It is a hobby that I take seriously. I spend much more time writing my book reviews. But when I get time, as I do this Saturday morning, I sit down to write and think about my writing process. As I’ve made clear on this blog, at some point in my life, I hope to make writing (anything) a priority. When will that be? I don’t know.

What would it take to make my writing “real”? Real writing, to me, is something that has been written and rewritten and polished. I’m sorry to say that while I do work hard on these blog entries, they are hardly “polished.”

Someday, I’ll write “for real.” Maybe I write a well-researched nonfiction book about something that interests me. Maybe I’ll write a novel. Maybe I’ll write a story. Maybe I’ll ghostwrite. At some point I’ll make my writing real.

I still consider myself a writer. For now, though, I’m just a “closet writer.” A “blogging writer.”

How do you cultivate creativity in your life?  Have you found the things that make you come alive? Are you doing them? Shouldn’t you be? (Write on Wednesday)

I started blogging for the public world in May — a book blog, this writing blog, a photography blog. All the sudden, there is a new creativity in my life, and it feels good.

Sometimes I get an idea for a writing sketch. Writing that makes me come alive.  I am not very good at fiction, but when I had time, I sat down and responded to some Fiction Friday prompts. I really felt alive as I created those characters. I’ve tried my hand at a novel that I have in mind. But time seems to stifle my creativity; I don’t have nearly enough time to spend nurturing those little children into being.

Every few weeks, I take some pictures, or I work with old photographs I’ve taken. I tweak them and upload them to my photography blog. I like working with my photographs, and I feel creative. But again, time stops me, and I get busy and forget.

Most often, I’ve been reading. When I finish reading something and stop to write a few passages about it, I feel I come alive. Analyzing what I read was what I did in college as an English major. I loved it then. I love it even more so now because I’m not spending days on each book: I’m finding the inspiring themes in less than 1,000 words and then I’m moving on to another inspiring book. Good literature is helping me cultivate my creativity.

Am I doing all I can to cultivate creativity? No; if so, I’d spend all day nurturing my fictional characters and the words and photographs that feel so good. Instead, I nurture my little boy, who is going to be walking soon and seems to eat constantly these days. Should I be doing more? No, my priorities are where they should be right now.

Sometimes, I wish I could spend eight hours a day writing and reading. Then my boy laughs as he stands up: he’s so proud of himself. I realize I don’t want to change anything.

So for now, I’ll focus on being a mom 24 hours a day. That keeps me alive. I’ll also keep reading inspiring literature: it adds an aspect of creativity that makes me feel alive, even when I’m too busy to sit and give life to the fictional characters and writing sketches residing in my mind.

The red glow dims and the movement stops. It is very dark now, and all is still. I like this time. It is time to move!

My arm moves slowly in the liquid around me. It hits the side. Bump bump bump! There is some movement, then all is still again. My hand finds my mouth. I suck the tiny fingers. I swallow. I swallow again.

It is too still. I twist, but it is too crowded: there is not enough space now. My feet kick the side. Bump! Bump! I hear a muffled noise and again feel movement. I stop kicking. The movement stops. Then I kick again. I like this game!

I stop moving and relax in the dark, curled up tightly. I like this dark! I am so safe, so warm, so complete.

I find my thumb and suck it again.

Response to Fiction Friday.

He does not want help. I surrender the mostly empty spoon to his prying fingers.

Now he thrusts out his jaw and grasps the spoon in his chubby hand, his knuckles near the bowl of the spoon. Swinging his arm from the elbow, he clicks the spoon, by chance, against the plastic bowl of pumpkin mash before him. Two clicks, then three. He grins and looks up.

“See!” his eyes dance. “I can do it myself.”

I congratulate him. He stops swinging his arm and brings the spoon to his face. It hits his right cheek, strings of pumpkin resting under his eye. Then the spoon finds his mouth. He chews: nothing.

He frowns, his brow wrinkles, and he lets out a high-pitched wail.

“No fair!” his eyes whine. “I’m hungry.”

He won’t to relinquish the spoon when I reach to help, but he stops crying: he wants to feed himself. He thrusts out his jaw, and tries again.

To my very determined nine-month-old son

“The light of genius expressed in literature does not fail with the death of the author. His galleries are still displayed for our instruction and enjoyment. But the magic key which could have opened new ones to our eager desire has gone forever. Let us, then, guard the treasures which he has bequeathed.”

Sir Winston Churchill, tribute to Rudyard Kipling, 17 November 1937, quoted in Never Give In! The Best Winston Churchill Speeches.

Continuation of L.A. with Dred. Read that first!

It was just my luck (my bad luck) that Jason was at my Wicked-Step-Aunt’s house when I arrived. I’ve always hated that guy!

Dred had just left for L.A. that morning and I still hadn’t been able to reach him to figure out what Plan B was. How was I going to get there when Dred had all the money for our trip? There I was, knocking at my Wicked-Step-Aunt’s front door on the day I was supposed to be heading to L.A. with Dred, when who should answer but Jason.

“Hey there!” He was wearing blue coveralls with these big stains, a brown stain was on right leg and a white smear on left shoulder. There was a splotch of white paint on his forehead and his mousy hair was all a mess. He looked so dumb, as usual. Did he have any idea? He didn’t invite me in or anything, he just stared at me, holding the door with his right arm and holding a dirty rag in the other.

“Didn’t you move out?” He scratched his head, like a monkey would, of course. But then he stepped aside as I charged in. As he should. It was my step-aunt’s house, not his. Even if I don’t have a key anymore.

I almost said, “Duh, why else would I knock?” Instead, I took the disdainful approach that always worked when we were in high school. “Why’re you here?”

It’s just my luck that Jason would see me on a day when I overslept and spent hours walking in the Chicago snow. I admit, I’d even cried a little bit. Just my luck that I hadn’t seen a mirror in hours. I’ll bet my mascara had smeared. That would be just my luck.

“I’m painting the kitchen,” Jason said, nodding toward the room. “Gotta get back.” He started walking away from me. “Your aunt and uncle are out of town, so you won’t catch ‘em.”

I almost corrected him, as usual: step-aunt. I want to make sure he remembers that she is not a blood relative. But I didn’t.

“Aren’t you going to ask me why I’m here?” I followed him, dropping my backpack on the ground in the front hall on the way. The kitchen was a mess: the cupboards were edged with masking tape, the table was pushed away from the wall, and newspapers were everywhere. Jason grunted, as usual, and didn’t respond. He picked up his paint brush and crouched by the wall next to the pantry.

I opened the fridge, but it was just my luck that it was as empty as my own had been.

“I missed my bus to L.A.” I explained, grabbing the half-eaten jar of dill pickles. Jason didn’t answer. I pulled a chair from the hall and sat at the newspaper-covered kitchen table.

“Dred must’ve gone without me.” I fished for a pickle. Jason looked up at me and grunted again, as usual. Just my luck that he won’t even talk to me on a day I needed it. Isn’t that what neighbors are for?

When Jason still hadn’t said anything and I’d already finished the second pickle, I started telling him all about Dred anyway: how he laughed at just about everything I say, how he always listened to me, how he had this great plan for us in L.A., how his eyes danced when he laughs – really, it was so cute, it shouldn’t be allowed. It was when I was telling Jason about Dred’s curl around his ear that I saw the illustration on the scrap of newspaper in front of me. The hair was just like Dred’s.

“Like this,” I said. I lifted the newspaper and, pointing to the curly hair on the page, I turned it toward Jason, but he kept painting. He’d moved on to another part of the wall. I turned the paper around again and stopped talking for a moment while I fished for the last two pickles in the jar. The sketch really looked like Dred.

“Composite Sketch of Fast Food Chain Robber,” said the caption. Wow, just my luck that my boy friend looks just like a robber! I thought. I didn’t say this aloud, of course, because I didn’t want Jason to get the wrong idea about Dred.

I was finished with the pickles, so I actually read the article that went with the sketch. Just my luck that the end of every line was cut off because the page had been ripped.

This robber had hit a few times, and every fast food joint he’d hit was near my old apartment. The longer I looked at the sketch, the more I knew: that was Dred.

I rubbed my arms to try to warm them from the sudden chill that went over my body.

I glanced at the date on the newspaper. It was two weeks old, the day he’d told me we should go to L.A. Just my luck, I thought: Dred, my boyfriend, was a robber.

“You’re actually reading?” said Jason from over my shoulder. I jumped and tried to hide the scrap of newspaper.

“Um, no…” I said. I swallowed. The pickle aftertaste was now disgusting.

“What’s up?” The taunting edge had disappeared from Jason’s voice; it was now smooth and gentle. I looked up at him. For the first time, I noticed that his eyes were a California-sky blue. They seemed to whisper “It’ll be alright.” I knew it would be. Just my luck, my new good luck, that I didn’t have to worry: I hadn’t gone to L.A. with Dred!

Fictional response to Fiction Friday prompt.